to the right an old man blinks
a red-orange smoky glow
on his cold face as he thinks
drinking and drowning his woes
and the city streets paved gold
elude the worn begging soul
a sad story only told
over a handout soup bowl
on this quiet city night
each strange face echoes in mind
my shadows eclipse street lights;
leave only footprints behind
and a dark city window
reflects one face i should know